


deception and perfection are wonderful traits

by TheNightbloodSolution



Series: The 100 Rarepair Challenge [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, but emori's just living her best nomad life and ilian is a sheep boi, i really dont know what to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 00:05:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16356803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightbloodSolution/pseuds/TheNightbloodSolution
Summary: Her name is Emori and she’s a nomad.Well, that’s what Otan calls it. Interchangeable with traveler. Sometimes he even calls them worldly, other times they’re opportunists.Emori tends to go for different words. Scavengers. Thieves. Con Artists. Outcasts.





	deception and perfection are wonderful traits

Her name is Emori and she’s a nomad.

Well, that’s what Otan calls it. Interchangeable with traveler. Sometimes he even calls them worldly, other times they’re opportunists.

Emori tends to go for different words. Scavengers. Thieves. Con Artists. Outcasts.

During the winter months, when the heat is still hardly tolerable, she spends her time in the Dead Zone, tricking passersby in an act as natural as drinking water. She likes their time in the dead zone, it’s easy, a routine. She has her cart – broken, as always – and Otan is just out of reach, always hiding somewhere, ready to jump out and issue the threat at her cue. People in the Dead Zone are easy marks. Those desperate enough to wander into the desert will (unfailingly) always fall for her act.

But it is no longer winter, and they can no longer stand the heat in the Dead Zone, so they wander. Again.

Sometimes they stumble upon cities. Emori likes those. Bustling streets lined with people almost as poor as her, but still inexplicably stupid enough to leave cash in their pockets. Emori’s a great pickpocket, even with only one hand to do the job. The city has easy marks, and Emori loves an easy mark.

Otan is the opposite. He hates the air in the city, too crowded, it’s hard for him to breathe. And even harder with the scarf tied over his face. Where Emori can simply walk by unnoticed as long as her hand is wrapped, Otan has to live under a scarf while they’re in public. She can see why he hates it.

Right now, they’re miles from Polis, and the grabs they got there (some food, money, and a pocket knife off a young boy) will only last so long. They need a new source of survival.

It’s harder in rural lands, even though Otan gets to enjoy the fresh air on his face. Shacks and houses are miles between in this land – Trishanakru territory, if the sheep are any indication – so they trek through the midday sun until they find someone to trick.

Or more accurately, until Emori finds someone to trick. Otan has stopped in some shade by a tree and told her to go ahead alone until she finds a house; he’ll wait behind. It’s not like he can ever really help with the scams anyway, not when they’re personal. That would mean people seeing his face, and they can’t take that risk. They are outcasts for a reason.

So Emori trudges on for longer, cursing herself for not going into the first settlement she’d happened across. There had been symbols from Polis on the door, a commitment to the Commander and the Flame, and those who were very religious tended to despise her and her mutations even more vehemently than the people she normally came across. Even wrapped up, she didn’t want to risk someone like that seeing her hand. Now, she thinks maybe she should have taken her chances.

Just as she’s about to turn around to attempt to go back to the first house, she sees it in the distance, a small wooden shack. She picks up her pace, and more comes into view. Blooming flowers in a garden, a pen full of sheep.

The door is sturdy wood, and she knocks as soon as she gets to the stoop.

Nothing.

She wraps her knuckles on the wood again, harder, not caring if she gets any splinters.

Still no response.

For a moment, she ponders if she should try knocking in the door, but that’s really more Otan’s forte, and she’s not sure when the people will come back. It could be at any moment.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, she turns around and walks back toward the dirt road. She’ll just have to go back to the first house.

“Wait!” She hears a voice call from behind her. “Hey!”

She turns around to see a figure running towards her.

She has to bite back a smile at first glance, because it’s better than she could have imagined. He’s tall and lean, with jet black hair and telltale Trishanakru tattoos adorning his face and body. But above all what Emori notices is that he’s a boy. Sixteen, seventeen at the most. Her age.

This is a boy, and a boy can be tricked easily. She’s found her easy mark.

“Hi.” Emori responds, flashing a tentative smile. If she could be herself, she’d be grinning ear to ear, but she has a part to play.

“Uh, you were knocking on the door, right?” The boy wipes the sweat accumulated on his brow. He’s clearly been out working in the sun.

She nods. “I know I’m in no place to ask,” Emori looks down, as if ashamed, “but I was wondering if I might be able to take shelter here, just for the night,” she clarifies quickly, “I’m travelling to Polis and have no place to stay.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, my brother moved there a couple months ago, and I’m on my way to join him.”

Emori is used to this part. The part where they contemplate, pause and wonder to themselves: should they do it? Let a stranger in their home out of sheer goodwill? Let her sleep on their floor and eat their food? Some say no, but most say yes, if only out of pity.

But the boy never stops to do any of that. He doesn’t take the minute to contemplate if he should let her stay.

He just smiles down at her. (It’s kind of dazzling, really.) “Of course. You’re in luck, too. My mother and brothers are in town right now, so you can steal one of their beds for the night.” He responds like it’s the easiest thing in the world. As if she’s not a stranger at all.

He turns around and gestures for Emori to follow him, but pauses after only a few steps and turns to face her again.

“Oh,” He says simply. “I guess if you’re staying here for the night, we should probably know each other’s names.” He extends a hand. “I’m Ilian.”

Emori shakes, bewildered. (It’s an outdated custom, the handshake, and she’s only ever seen it used when she’s wandered through Louwoda Kliron Kru.) “Sasha.” She responds. Because the girl who flashes shy smiles and is embarrassed to ask a teenage boy for shelter isn’t her. This girl isn’t an outcast, a freak, and a full-time traveler. While she interacts with him, she is no longer Emori.

* * *

 

“So, where are you from?” He asks her casually as they start their dinner; freshly cooked meat (Emori doesn’t know what kind) and potatoes. The portion is larger than she’s used to, and it takes all her self-control not to shove all straight into her mouth. She feels a little guilty Otan is missing out on it. “I assume you’re not Trishanakru or I’d’ve seen you around before.”

“Sangedakru,” She matches his casual tone. She’s traversed the Dead Zone enough to bluff knowledge of the desert clan’s territory.

“Desert, huh? I can’t imagine that.” He shakes his head before taking another bite. “I’m too used to everything being green. But I guess as long as you’re not an Azgedan soldier, right?” He jokes.

“You caught me,” She replies dryly, “I’m one of those typical Azgedan soldiers who come knocking at your door asking for shelter.”

“Nah, you’re too nice to be Azgeda.” He smiles at her. “Too pretty, too.”

Emori involuntarily blushes and looks down at her dinner. Because that’s what Sasha would do. Not because she thinks he’s cute.

They talk casually over dinner, and though most of her backstory is fabricated, he seems genuinely interested in her life. She finds herself eating more slowly than usual (she’s typically a scarfer – something about never knowing when her next meal was coming made her want to shove everything down her throat as fast as possible) because she knows when she stops, the conversation will be over. He’ll show her where to sleep, and she won’t get to be Sasha, the Sangedakru girl flirting with a cute Trishanakru boy, anymore.

“You don’t have to hide it, you know.”

Emori tenses and draws her hand back from where it’s resting casually on the edge of the table by her plate. _Stupid_.

Ilian flinches. “I just mean- you don’t have to keep it covered if you don’t want to. It doesn’t bother me.”

“I think I’ll keep it on, thanks.” Emori struggles to keep her voice steady. (She can hear the taunt “Frikdreina” ringing in her ears.)

“That’s fine too,” Ilian quickly backpeddles. “Um, it’s wrong. What people do to people who are-” He cuts himself off, not knowing what to say, but picks back up when he hears Emori’s silence. “When I was younger, there was a boy born to one of my neighbors a few miles east. He had a mutation – his leg – and his parents just left him outside. He was just a baby and now he’s-”

“Dead.” Emori finishes.

Ilian nods. “I’m glad you had different experiences.”

Emori quirks a weary smile at him, like Sasha would. Sasha, the girl with two loving parents, unfortunately dead, but certainly parents that took care of her. Sasha, the girl from Sangedakru, who lived with her brother, who now had a real job in Polis, a job that wasn’t scam or theft. Sasha, the girl who was anything but a Frikdreina.

“Me too.” She replies.

She eats a little faster after that, and she thanks him when he shows her where she’ll be sleeping.

* * *

 

In the morning, she’s gone, and a few other things are too. Some of the food from the pantry, a trinket here or there, and the touch is so subtle, Ilian barely notices anything’s gone.

When he does, he bolts over to the box of his mother’s treasures, filled with jewelry and savings their family can’t afford to lose.

Everything is in its place. Nothing of too high value has been taken. There is something new in the box, though. A note.

_Sorry._

_-Emori._

He thinks, if nothing else, at least he got her name.


End file.
